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%\)t MitjersiDe iiittutun Series 
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^OL 



ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER 
POEMS 



BY 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH AND 
EXPLANATORY NOTES 



M- 




/S^0V7 T^^ 



/ 



HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 11 East Seventeen tli Street 
Chicago : 28 Lakeside Building 



■ A' . 

CONTENTS. ) H ~ 

FAGE 

Biographical Sketch 3 

Enoch Arden 11 

The Day-Dream 42 

Dora 54 

The Talking Oak 59 

Sea Dreams 71 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington . 83 

Ulysses 93 

The Charge of the Light Brigade .... 96 

Lady Clare 98 

The Death of the Old Year 102 

Crossing the Bar 104 



Copyright, 1895, 
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

All rights reserved. 



'^"^^-fl 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge^ Mass,^ U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company. 



i 



:p 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 

Alfred Tennyson was the third of twelve chil- 
dren of the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, LL.D., 
rector of the village of Somersby, in Lincolnshire, 
and was born on August 6, 1809. So apart from the 
world was Somersby that even the news of Waterloo 
did not reach it for some time after the great victory 
was won. The low fen country of England in which 
the village lies has indeed such a quiet beauty of its 
own that it seems the very home of peace. Such sur- 
roundings were as well adapted as any could have 
been for the development of a nature like Tennyson's. 
Thackeray's daughter, Mrs. Ritchie, has given the 
most suggestive glimpses of the poet's childhood. She 
tells of him as a sturdy boy of five, opening his arms 
to the wind, letting himself be blown along by it, and 
as he went, making his first line of poetry, " I hear 
a voice that 's speaking in the wind." 

Another story of Mrs. Ritchie's must be told, as 
showing how a family of young people who nearly all 
were to do something one day in poetry entertained 
themselves : " These handsome children had, beyond 
most children, that wondrous toy at their command 
which some people call imagination. The boys played 
great games like Arthur's knights ; they were cham- 
pions and warriors defending a stone heap, or again 
they would set up opposing camps with a king in the 
midst of each. . . . When dinner-time came, and they 
all sat round the table, each in turn put a chapter of 



4 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 

his -history underneatli the potato bowl, — long, end- 
less histories, chapter after chapter, diffuse, absorbing, 
unending as are the stories of real life of which each 
sunrise opens on a new part ; some of these romances 
were in letters, like ' Clarissa Harlowe.' Alfred used 
to tell a story which lasted for months, and which was 
called ' The Old Horse.' " 

There are anecdotes, too, of Tennyson's early 
attempts at writing, which, under the stimulus of a 
sympathetic household, were not few. While he and 
his brother Charles were still mere boys they deter- 
mined to face the world with a little book of verses. 
A firm of booksellers in Louth was persuaded to pay 
ten pounds for the copjn^ight of the small volume 
which in 1827 appeared under the title " Poems by 
Two Brothers.'' As in most juvenile verses it was 
easy to see how^ greatly the young poets' minds bore 
the impress of their studies and reading. 

There was nevertheless no lack of individuality in 
Alfred's mind, if not yet in his work. The fresh im- 
pulse of university life was needed to bring forth the 
best in the young man. A little schooling and his 
father's instruction had prepared him by 1828 to enter 
Trinity College, Cambridge. It was in large measure 
through his friendships that Alfred Tennyson's devel- 
opment at the University came about. He soon found 
himself one of a group of undergraduates known as 
" The Apostles," a literary society which bound to- 
gether the choicest young spirits of the University. 
Of all " The Apostles," Arthur Hallam, the son of the 
historian of the Middle Ages, seems to have been en- 
dowed with the rarest gifts of mind and spirit. In 
Tennyson's enthusiasm for his friend he was said to 
come " as near perfection as mortal man can be." 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 5 

Another of their coterie said : " His was such a lovely 
nature that life seemed to have nothing more to teach 
him." So closely allied were the two young men by 
every sympathy of taste and feeling that their friend- 
ship soon grew to be a very part of their lives. 

Upon his father's death in 1831, Tennyson left the 
University without taking his degree. Meanwhile, in 
1830, Hallam and he had together made an expedition 
to Spain — not unlike Byron's to Greece — with the 
purpose of helping the rebellion against the tyranny 
of Ferdinand. They carried with them money and 
letters written in invisible ink, and altogether bore 
themselves like true conspirators. 

Through the college terms and the vacations spent 
mainly in Hallam's company, Tennyson's chief concern 
had been poetry. His '^Timbuctoo " was honored as 
the Chancellor's Prize Poem in its year, and even at- 
tracted the notice of the public press. It was in 1830 
that he brought forth the volume which set up his first 
public claim to be considered a poet. Its title was 
"Poems, chiefly Lyrical," and in its contents are to 
be found poems which still appear in Tennyson's col- 
lected works. The critics reviewed the volume with 
moderate praise, and one of them had the strange fore- 
sight to write, with special reference to '' The Poet : " 
" If our estimate of Mr. Tennyson be correct, he too is 
a poet, and many years hence may he read his juvenile 
description of that character with the proud conscious- 
ness that it has become the description and history of 
his own work." The faith his friends had in him 
is shown by Hallam's prophetic words one day in the 
garden of Somersby rectory : " Fifty years hence, 
people will be making pilgrimages to this place." 

Towards the end of 1832 Tennyson brought out his 



6 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

next volume, a little larger than the previous book 
and containing some of the poems which still hold a 
high place amongst his best of their kind. " The Lady 
of Shalott," the first pledge of his devotion to the 
Arthurian legends, was one of them. 

In 1833 came the crushing news of the death of 
Arthur Hallam, now doubly dear as the betrothed 
lover of Tennyson's sister. Travelling for his feeble 
health in Austria with his father, he was seized with 
an intermittent fever, and died in Vienna. The be- 
reavement at once drove Tennyson — from his earliest 
days given to solitude and introspection — more than 
ever before into himself. For nearly ten years after 
Hallam's death, the poet published j)ractically nothing, 
and held himself much aloof from men, leading — 
except for sojourns in the country with family and 
friends — a rather lonely, busy life in London. In 
this period it is said that most of " In Memoriam " 
was w^ritten, though it was not published till 1850. 
Besides linking inseparably the names of Tennyson 
and Hallam, this wonderfid poem is for all men who 
mourn the loss of a friend the expression of the com- 
plete progress of grief, from its first stunning blow, 
through its gradual stages, to the final mastery of 
resignation. 

In these outwardly silent years of its production 
it is believed that Tennyson, busy with much poetic 
work beside, was consciously perfecting the gifts in 
which, with the certainty of genius, he had ample con- 
fidence. The time, however, was not w^holly without 
its friendships and pleasures. To an extract from one 
of Carlyle's letters to Emerson w^e are indebted for a 
graphic picture of the Tennyson of this period : " One 
of the finest looking men in the world. A great shock 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 7 

of rough dusty-dark hair ; bright, laughing hazel eyes ; 
massive aquiline face, most massive, yet most delicate ; 
of sallow-brown complexion, almost Indian-looking ; 
clothes cynically loose, free-and-easy ; smokes infinite 
tobacco. His voice is musical metallic — fit for loud 
laughter and piercing wail, and all that may lie be- 
tween ; speech and speculation free and plenteous : I 
do not meet, in these late decades, such company over 
a pipe ! " 

In 1842 appeared in two volumes the " Poems " 
which determined Tennyson's position as an English 
poet of the first rank. Previously he had been known 
but to the few. Now his careful matured work of ten 
years was instantly recognized as individual and high. 
New editions of the book were speedily called for, and 
in 1845 Tennyson's name was put upon the pension 
list for an annuity of <£200. From this time forward 
the poet'-s fame was secure. In 1847 " The Princess" 
was given to the world, and met with immediate 
popularity. But it is the year 1850 which stands 
forth as the most important in the poet's career. His 
marriage with Miss Emily Sellwood, a niece of Sir 
John Franklin, the Arctic explorer, then took place. 
Twickenham, already associated with poetry through 
the name of Pope, became their first home. Earlier, 
in the same year, Tennyson published, at first anony- 
mously, "In Memoriam." Scarcely had it appeared 
when Wordsworth died, and the laureateship became 
vacant. The warrant creating Tennyson Poet Laure- 
ate was dated November 19, 1850 ; on March 6, 1851, 
he was formally installed. It is interesting to read 
that at his first appearance at court, he wore the court- 
dress of the aged poet, Samuel Rogers, that Words- 
worth also borrowed the same suit for his installation, 



8 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

and that each poet arrayed himself in it at Rogers's 
house before the ceremony. 

It was not long before another of his most charac- 
teristic works was completed and brought forth, for 
the book to which '' Maud " gave the title appeared 
in 1855. We have seen how, as early as 1832, the 
Arthurian legends were occupying the poet's mind. 
In 1859, he published the first four of the '• Idylls 
of the King." As we have them now they were not 
completed for some years, several being added in 
1869, — including the *• Morte dArthur,*' incorpo- 
rated from the volume of 1842, — and the last in 1872. 

The Idylls give evidence of one of the most distin- 
guishing marks of Tennyson's genius, — his devotion 
to his native land. As became the Poet Laureate, 
he spoke constantly from a strong national feeling. 
" Maud ' ' was in large measure his outcry against 
the materialism which he felt as a menace to his 
nation. •• The Charge of the Light Brigade '' shows 
clearly enough how his countrymen's noble deeds 
could move him. " The War " with its rinoino' re- 
frain, 

" Form I form I Riflemen form I " 

gives an instance of his power to awaken others. The 
volume of 1861:, taking its title from " Enoch Arden," 
and containing such poems as '* Sea Dreams," dis- 
played another side of his English sympathies. 

His own life the while was the ideal life of a 
poet, touching humanity through its friendships, yet 
almost always remote from the crowd. Leaving 
Twickenham, he went to live at Farringford, near 
Freshwater in the Isle of Wight. The climate of 
Farrinrford was not found alwavs cono-enial with 
Mrs. Tennyson's health. The poet's home, too, be- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 9 

came too much an object of curiosity to strangers. It 
was thought best, therefore, to live, at least for a part 
of the year, elsewhere, and by 1867 the Tennyson 
family was established at the retired estate of Aid- 
worth, near Haslemere in Surrey. Between this place 
and Farringford the time thenceforth was divided. 
The oldest son, Hallam, as years went by, became his 
father's constant companion. The only other child, a 
son, Lionel, died in 1886, at the age of thirty-two, 
having begun a promising diplomatic career. 

After the appearance of the last of the Arthurian 
poems in 1872, Tennyson entered upon a period of 
dramatic production, but in spite of the poetic beauty 
of many passages in Tennyson's plays, it cannot be 
said that they have given him a rank amongst Eng- 
lish dramatists at all corresponding with his place 
amongst the poets. First of the dramas, " Queen 
Mary " was published in 1875, and a year later Mr. 
Henry Irving brought it out in a condensed form at 
the Lyceum Theatre in London. " Harold," in 1877, 
was the next play, and has never yet been acted. 
Other plays followed at intervals up to 1884, when 
" Becket " was published. Since then Mr. Irving has 
produced it successfully. 

''Ballads and Other Poems," published in 1880, 
brought together many of the stirring shorter pieces 
written during the same years with most of the plays. 
In the year of " Becket's " publication, Tennyson was 
gazetted Baron of Aldworth and Farringford. As he 
had gained popularity in 1865 by declining a baro- 
netcy, so in certain quarters he lost it for a time by 
the acceptance of a peerage. The elevation caused 
no abatement of his work, for in 1885 '' Tiresias," a 
volume dedicated to Robert Browning, appeared, and 



10 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH, 

in the next year, one of the unsuccessful plays, " The 
Promise of May," gave the title to another new book. 
In 1889 was published " Demeter and Other Poems." 

Of necessity the end was now drawing near. Yet 
as late as the spring of 1892, his semi-dramatic pas- 
toral poem had its first production in New York, and 
was greatly liked. In the summer of 1892 he was 
busy with the proofs of a new volume, "Akbar's 
Dream," but he did not live to see its publication. 
Early on Thursday morning, October 6, after a short 
illness, he died at Aldworth. His bed was by the 
window, through which a flood of moonlight fell upon 
him. It was a scene for the poet's own pen to describe. 

It is impossible to sum up in the brief space that re- 
mains a complete estimate of the essence of Tennyson's 
poetic greatness. In any analysis of it, the purity, 
elevation, and depth of thought, the pervading quality 
of imagination, and the constant beauty of structure 
must primarily be reckoned with. In other words, his 
mind was amply adequate to supplying him with the 
most noble and lovely themes, and his mastery over 
his art enabled him to put them into noble and lovely 
forms. He gathered up in himself many of the beau- 
ties of poets who went before him, and has won the 
tribute of so much imitation — often by persons no 
doubt unconscious of imitating — that nearly the 
whole body of English poetry in our second half cen- 
tury has been different because of him. 

Note. It should be said that most of the biographical material for 
this sketch has been drawn from Arthur Waugh's Alfred Lord 
Tennyson. A Study of his Lfe and Work. 



i. 

i 



ENOCH ARDEN. 

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; and higher 
5 A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill ; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazelwood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

10 Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And PhilijD Ray, the miller's only son. 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 

15 ]Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 

Enoch Arden appeared as the principal poem of the volume 
bearing its name in 1864. It is the main product of a period 
of reaction from the work which dealt, in the Idylls of the 
King, with the ^reat lege nds of_JEn ^p -land . As in other poems 
of its period, TennVson- aTlemptedtocTraw near to the actual 
life of the English people. The sympathetic reader will feel 
especially in the poem the fitness of the means to the end in 
view ; the many metaphors of the sea, the stress that is laid 
upon the elements of superstition and the supernatural, — ele- 
ments well in keeping with the characters of the story. The 
beauty of the descriptive passages needs no pointing out. 

/. Danish barro"ws, burial mounds supposed to date from the 
Danish incursions into England. 



12 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
20 To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff ; 
In this the children play'd at keeping house. 

25 Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 
While Annie still was mistress : but at times 
Enoch woidd hold possession for a week : 
" This is my house and this my little wife," 
" Mine too," said Philiji, " turn and turn about : " 

30 When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger made 
Was master : then woidd Philiji, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears. 
Shriek out, " I hate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 

35 And pray them not to quarrel for her sake. 
And sayshe would be little jijf a tiLhoUi. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past. 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 

40 On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his love. 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch : tho' she knew it not. 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 

45 A purpose evermore before his eyes, 

36. A line which skillfully foreshadows the tragedy of the 
poem. 



ENOCH ARDEN, 13 

To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie : and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 

50 A caref uUer in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merchantman, and made himself 
Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 

55 From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas : 
And all men look'd upon him favorably : 
And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May 
He purchased his own boat, and made a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 

60 The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great and small. 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd 

65 (His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climb'd the hill. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, 

TO His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd. 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 

75 And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 

54. Full sailor may be taken as equivalent to " able seaman." 
67, 68. Where the woods grew thinner and lighter. 



14 ENOCH AUDEN. 

There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

80 So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and competence. 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In him woke, 

85 With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost. 
And give his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers ; a wish renew'd. 
When two years after came a boy to be 

90 The rosy idol of her solitudes. 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 

95 Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 
Not only to the market-cross were known. 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal- warding lion-whelp 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, 

100 Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
94. Osier basket. 

96. Many English villages have an old stone cross in the 
market-place. 

98. The heraldic device over the portal to the hall, supposed 
to stand as a guard (warding). 

99. A yew-tree cut, after the fashion of old gardening, into 
the form of a peacock. 



ENOCH ARDEN, 15 

Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 

105 And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 

no Another hand crept too across his trade 

Taking her bread and theirs : and on him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 

U5 To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth. 
And her he loved, a beggar : then he pray'd 
" Save them from this, whatever comes to me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 

120 Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 
Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go ? 
There yet were many wrecks before she sail'd, 

125 Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the 
place ? 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear 'd 
No graver than as when some little cloud 
130 Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 

And isles a light in the offing : yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do ? 

131. At sea on half cloudy days one often notices a bit of sun- 
light standing out on the water like an island. 



16 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Then Enoch lay long-i3ondering on his plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 

135 How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 

140 So might she keep the house while he was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder ? go 
This voyage more than once ? yea, twice or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 

145 With fuller profits lead an easier life. 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 

150 Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs. 
Appraised his weight and fondled father-like, 

155 But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
160 But manifold entreaties, many a tear, ^ 

Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
142. Voyage must be read as a dissyllable, not too pro- 
nouncedly. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 17 

Besought him, supplicating, if he eared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
165 He not for his own self caring but her, 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bouo'ht Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 

170 To fit their little streetward sitting-room 

With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home. 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe. 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 

175 Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill'd and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his caref id hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, 

180 Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 

185 Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Wb^e God jii-niaii is one with man-in-God, 
TPray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes. 
Whatever came to him : and then he said 

190 '' Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 

165. Not an easy line to read with proper stress ; self should 
be dwelt upon, and a certain pause made after caring. 



18 ENOCH ARDEN, 

For I '11 be back, ray girl, before you know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, '' and he, 

195 This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts. 
And make him merry, when I come home again, 

200 Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go," 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself ; but when he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things, 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
205 On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl. 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring. 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her. 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

210 At length she spoke, " O Enoch, you are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

"Well then," said Enoch, " I shall look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
215 (He named the day), get you a seaman's glass. 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
" Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted. 
Look to the babes, and till I come again, 
220 Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 

213. Another significant prophecy, as in line 36. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 19 

Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder In those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
225 Can I go from him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 

230 After a night of feverous wakefulness. 

When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 
" Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how should the 

child 
Remember this ? " and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 

235 A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 

Thro' all his future ; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She when the day, that Enoch mention'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 
240 She could not fix the glass to suit her eye ; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw^ him not : and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
245 She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him ; 
Then, tho' she mourn'd his absence as his grave, , 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 

222-226. The use of Bible language at this moment is quite 
in harmony with Enoch's character. 



20 ENOCH ARDEN, 

To barter, nor compensating the want 
250 By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding " what would Enoch say?" 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
255 Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 
She f ail'd and sadden'd knowing it ; and thus. 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

260 Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 

^ With all a mother's care : nevertheless. 

Whether her business often call'd her from it, 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 

265 Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was, 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly. 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

270 In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her). 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her now, 

275 May be some little comfort ; " therefore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front. 
Paused for a moment at an inner door. 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 

280 Fresh from the burial of her little one, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 21 

Cared not to look ou any human face, 
But turn"d her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringiy, 
" Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

285 He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd reply, 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am ! " half abash'd him ; yet unask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to her : 

290 "I came to speak to you of what he wash'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro'. 

295 And wherefore did he go this weary way, 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To o'ive his babes a better brino-ino'-uD 
Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. 

300 And if he come again, vext will he be 

To find the precious morning hours were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave. 
If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 

305 Have we not know n each other all our lives ? — 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again, 
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 

310 Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 



22 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 

Answer'd, " I cannot look you in the face ; 
315 1 seem so foolish and so broken down. 

When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; 

And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; 

But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me ; 

He will repay you : money can be repaid ; 
320 Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let me, Annie ? " 

There she turn'd, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him. 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
325 Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school. 
And bought them needful books, and every way, 

330 Like one who does his duty by his own, 

Made himself theirs ; and tho' for Annie's sake. 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port. 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish. 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 

335 Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
Xhe late and early roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and then. 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 

340 From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 
339. To make it seem not like a gift of charity. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 23 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind : 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 

345 But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 

350 Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him, 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 

355 Down at the far end of an avenue, 

Going we know not where : and so ten years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land. 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 
360 To go with others nutting to the wood, 

And Annie would go with them ; then they begg'd 
For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too : 
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and saying to him, 
365 '•' Come with us, Father Philip," he denied ; 
But when the children pluck'd at him to go. 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, 
For was not Annie with them ? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
370 Just where the prone edge of the wood began 

370. The repetition here of the phrase in line 67 is one of the 
instances of the device used in the poem to bind together the 



24 ENOCH ARDEN, 

To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Faird her ; and sighing, '• Let me rest," she said : 
So Philip rested with her well-content ; 
AVhile all the younger ones with jubilant cries 

375 Broke from their elders, and tumultuously 
Down thro" the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and disj^ersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 

330 And calling, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crei3t into the shadow : at last he said, 

33^5 Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the wood. 
Tired, Annie ? " f or she did not speak a word. 
" Tired ? *' but her face had fall'n upon her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 

390 i' The ship was lost," he said, '' the ship was lost ! 
Xo more of that I why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite ? " And Annie said 
" I thought not of it : but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

395 Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long. 
That tho* I know not when it first came there, 
I know that it will out at last. Oh, Annie, 

400 It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 

two parts of the tragedy and make it all oue. Compare lines 
80 and 507, for a similar practice ; still others will be found. 



ENOCH ARDEX. 26 

That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living ; well then — let me speak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 

405 Unless — they say that women are so quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have you know — 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children : I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 

410 That I love them as if they were mine o\\ti ; 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years, 
VTe might be still as happy as God grants 
To any of His creatures. Think upon it : 

415 For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 

Xo burthen, save my care for you and yours : 
And we have kno^Ti each other all our lives. 
And I have loved vou lono^er than vou know." 

Then answer'd Annie : tenderly she spoke : 
420 " You have been as God's good angel in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?" 
42.5 " I am content," he answer'd, " to be loved 
A little after Enoch." '' Oh." she cried, 
Seared as it were, •' dear Philip, wait a while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so loug : 
430 Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 
Oh, wait a little ! " Phihp sadly said, 
" Annie, as I have waited all my life 
I well may wait a little." " Xay," she cried. 



26 ENOCH ABDEN. 

'' I am bound : you have my promise — in a year ; 
435 Will you not bide your year as I bide mine ? " 
And Philip answer'd, *•' I will bide my year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead ; 

440 Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, rose. 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 

445 Saying gently, '' Annie, when I spoke to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answered, " I am bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, 

450 While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words. 
That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again. 
And there he stood once more before her face, 

455 Claiming her promise. " Is it a year ? " she ask'd. 
'' Yes, if the nuts," he said, " be ripe again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 

460 A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." 
And Annie could have w^ept for pity of him ; 

46.5 And yet she held him on delayingly 



ENOCH ARDEN. 27 

With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 
Till half another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 

470 Abhorrent of a calculation crost. 

Began to chafe as at a personal ^Tong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too, 

475 As simple folk that knew not their own minds ; 
And one, in wdiom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish ; 

480 But evermore the daughter jorest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty ; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Carew^orn and wan ; and all these things fell on her 

485 Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign, '' my Enoch, is he gone? " 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 
4M0 Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 

470. Angry that their expectations were not fulfilled. 

491. From early times one form of divination has been to 
read a personal meaning in passages selected by chance from 
books. The yEneid of Yirgil was often used, and in England 
the Bible has been put to the same ser^^ce, by persons like 



28 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 

Suddenly put her finger on the text, 

" Under the palm-tree." That was nothing to her : 
495 No meaning there : she closed the Book and slept : 

When lo I her Enoch sitting on a height, 

Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 

" He is gone," she thought, " he is happy, he is 
singing 

Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
500 The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 

Whereof the happy people strowing cried 

' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here she woke, 

Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 

" There is no reason v/hy we should not wed." 
505 "Then for God's sake," he answer'd, "both our 
sakes. 

So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 

510 A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path. 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone^ 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often, 

515 Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state, 

Annie, since the days of the Puritans. In George Eliot's 

Adam Bede, Dinah Morris makes important use of the practice. 

" And when I 've opened the Bible for direction," she says, 

" I 've always lighted on some clear word to tell me where 

my work lay." 
494. Judges iv. 5. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 29 

Being with child : but when her child was born, 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd, 
o2u Then the new mother came about her heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously sail'd 
The ship Good Fortune, tho' at setting forth 

525 The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 

530 She passing thro' the summer world again. 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
535 Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home- voyage : at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day. 
Scarce-rocking her full-busted figure-head 
540 Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows : 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable. 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
TiU hard upon the cry of " breakers " came 

527. This of course refers to the region about the equator. 

537. Voyage here is more nearly one syllable. 

538. There is a constant impression at sea of being at the 
centre of a vast circle. 



30 ENOCH AEDEN, 

545 The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 

But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

550 No want was there of human sustenance, 

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 

555 They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut, 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 
560 Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, 

Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life. 

They could not leave him. After he was gone. 

The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 

And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
565 Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 

Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 

In those two deaths he read God's warning, " Wait." 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, 
570 The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
563. Stem, a tree-trunk of which they tried to make a canoe* 



ENOCH ARDEN. 31 

575 And glories of the broad belt of the world, 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 

580 The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that branched 
And blossomed in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave. 
As dow^i the shore he ranged, or all day long 

585 Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 

590 The blaze upon the waters to the east : 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 
Then the great stars that globed themselves in 

Heaven, 
The hollo wer-bello wing ocean, and again 

595 The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch. 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him, haunting him, or he himself 
600 Moved haunting people, things and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 

575. Broad belt of the world, the ocean ; the ancients, in- 
deed, had such a conception of it. 

597. So much was he a part of nature. 



32 ENOCH ARDEN. 

The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
605 The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs. 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 
And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Gio Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
Returned upon him, had not his poor heart 
615 Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none who speaks with Him seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. * 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 

620 Year after year. His hopes to see his own. 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields. 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 

625 Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay : 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills, 

630 They sent a crew that landing burst away 

In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores 
With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary. 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 

635 Muttering and mmnbling, idiot-like it seem'd, 



ENOCH ARDEN, 33 

With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what : and yet he led the way 
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 

640 And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 
Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; 
Whom, when their casks were fiU'd they took 

aboard 
And there the tale he utter'd brokenly. 
Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 

645 Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it ; 

And clothes they gave him and free passage home ; 
But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his county, or could answer him, 

650 If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. 
And dull the voyage was with long delays. 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermore 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

655 He like a lover down thro' all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: 
And that same morning officers and men 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

660 Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 
Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 
But homeward — home — what home ? had he a 
home ? — 

638. Sweet water, not salt. 

651. Voyage, two syllables again. 

657. Her ghostly wall, the chalk cliffs of the south coast. 



34 ENOCH ARDEN. 

66-5 His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either chasm. 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on before, 

670 And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : 

675 Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 

680 His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 

685 Still downward thinking, " dead, or dead to me ! " 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old, 
690 He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 

667. See line 102. 

688. A house of pilaster crossed with timbers, *' half-tim- 
bered '' as it is called ; a style of architecture made familiar by 
the pictures of Shakespeare's birthplace. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 35 

A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
695 There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him, with other annals of the port. 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, 

TOO So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school, 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her. 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 

705 Of Philip's child : and o'er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller; only when she closed, 
" Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," 

710 He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 
Repeated muttering, ''cast away and lost ; " 
Again in deeper inward whispers, "lost! " 

But Enoch yearned to see her face again ; 
" If I might look on her sweet face again 

715 And know that she is happy." So the thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 

720 There did a thousand memories roll upon him. 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 



36 ENOCH ARDEN. 

725 The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward ; but behind, 
With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 

730 Flourish' d a little garden square and walFd : 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk di^^ded it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 

735 Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth : 

740 And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 

745 Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, 
Caught at, and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd : 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 

750 The mother glancing often toward her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

728. Latest, last. 

733. Shingle, gravel from the seashore. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 37 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
7a5 His \\4fe his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
760 Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because thino-s seen are miohtier than thino:s heard, 
Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
765 Which in one moment, like the blast of doom. 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden wall, 
770 Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found. 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees 
775 Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

'-'- Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
780 Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer I aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her. never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too I must I not speak to these ? 



88 ENOCH ARDEN. 

785 They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never : no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature f aiFd a little 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 
790 Back toward his solitary home again, 

All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
" Not to tell her, never to let her know." 

795 He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating uj) thro' all the bitter world. 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 

600 Kept him a living soul. '' This miller's wife," 
He said to Miriam, '' that you spoke about, 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives? " 
" Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, " fear enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 

805 Why, that would be her comfort ; " and he thought 
'' After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, 
I wait His time ; " and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 

810 Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought the stinted commerce of those days ; 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself : 

815 Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
799. See liue 638. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 39 

Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as the year 
Roird itseK round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came 

820 Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 

Weakening the man, till he could do no more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no giadlier does the stranded wreck 

825 See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 

830 On Enoch thinking, " after I am gone, 
Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last." 
He caird aloud for Miriam Lane and said 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear. 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 

835 Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 

" Dead," clamor'd the good woman, '' hear him talk ; 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 
" Swear," added Enoch sternly, '' on the book." 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 

840 Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
" Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ? " 
" Know him? " she said, " I knew him far'away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 

845 Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her : 

" His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
I think I have not three days more to live ; 
I am the man." At which the woman gave 



40 ENOCH ARDEN. 

A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 

850 '' You Ardeii, you ! nay,— sure he was a foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said again 
" My God has bow'd me down to what I am ; 
My grief and solitude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 

855 Who married — but that name has twice been 
changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back. 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 

860 And how he kept it. As the w^oman heard, 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears. 
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven. 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 

865 But awed and promise-bounden she forbore. 
Saying only, '' See your bairns before you go! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied. 

870 " Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and understand. 
While I have power to speak. I charge you now 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 

875 Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she lay her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 

865. Bounden, an old form of hound, here used, doubtless 
ill large measure for the metre's sake. 



ENOCH ARDEN. '41 

So like her mother, that my latest breath 
880 Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 

And tell my son that I died blessing him. 

And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 

He never meant us any thing but good. 

But if my children care to see me dead, 
885 Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 

I am their father ; but she must not come. 

For my dead face would vex her after-life. 

And now there is but one of all my blood. 

Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 
890 This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it, 

And I have borne it with me all these years. 

And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 

But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 

My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone, 
895 Take, give her this, for it may comfort her : 

It will moreover be a token to her. 

That I am he." 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all. 
That once again he roU'd his eyes upon her 
900 Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this. 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale. 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals. 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
905 That all the houses in the haven rang. 

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad. 

Crying with a loud voice " A sail I a sail ! 

I am saved ; " and so fell back and spoke no more. 



42 THE DAY-DREAM. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
910 And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O Lady Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, 
The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
5 As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 
10 Across my fancy, brooding warm, 
The reflex of a legend past. 
And loosely settled into form. 
911. The good taste of calling attention to the costliness of 
Enoch's funeral has been questioned ; but is not the fact that 
expense would signify more than any other one thing to the 
villagers a sufficient explanation, or must we look for some sub- 
tler additional reference to what the event cost in Annie's life ? 

The Day-Dream. The germ of The Day Dream is to be found 
in The Sleeping Beauty, which first appeared in the volume of 
1830. In its expanded, complete form the poem became a part 
of the volume of 1842. It is one of the best instances in Eng- 
lish literature of the giving of new life, through a new form of 
beauty, to an old tale. The device of making a personal set- 
ting for his story — here by addressing it and its application to 
" Lady Flora " — was a favorite one with Tennyson. In the first 
form of the Morte (T Arthur called The Epic, and in The Princess, 
this method may be observed. 

3. Damask cheek. A term from Shakespeare's Twelfth 
Night 



THE DAY-DREAM. 43 

And would you have the thought I had, 
And see the vision that I saw, 
15 Then take the broidery-frame, and add 
A crimson to the quaint macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face. 

Nor look ^^^th that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their place, 
20 And order'd words asunder fly. 



THE SLEEPING PALACE. 
I. 

The varying year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy plains. 
Here rests the sap within the leaf. 

Here stays the blood among the veins. 
25 Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd. 

Faint murmurs from the meadows come. 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 



II. 

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 
30 On every slanting terrace-la^^l. 
The fountain to liis place returns 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower, 
On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
35 The peacock in his laurel bower. 
The parrot in his gilded wires. 



44 THE DAY-DREAM, 



III. 
Roof -haunting martins warm their eggs : 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 
40 Droop sleepily : no sound is made, 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a j)icture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 
That watch the sleepers from the wall. 

IV. 

45 Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain'd ; and there 
The wrinkled steward at his task, 

The maid-of -honor blooming fair ; 
The page has caught her hand in his : 
50 Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss : 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass. 
The beams, that thro' the oriel shine, 
55 Make prisms in every carven glass. 

And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps. 
Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 
60 He must have been a jovial king. 

37. Martins. Shakespeare's "temple-haunting martlet" in 
Macbeth is the same bird, — a swallow. 

53. The hundred summers, the years through which, in the 
old story of The Sleeping Beauty, the slumber of the castle and 
all within it was to last. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 45 



VI. 
All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood ; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 
65 All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and brier, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen. 
High up, the topmost palace-spire. 

VII. 

When will the hundred summers die, 

70 And thought and time be born again, 

And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men ? 
Here all things in their place remain. 
As all were order'd, ages since. 
75 Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 
And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 



Year after year unto her feet. 
She lying on her couch alone, 

Across the purple coverlet, 
80 The maiden's jet-black hair has grown. 

On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : 

The slumbrous light is rich and warm, 
And moves not on the rounded curl. 



46 THE DAY-DREAM, 

n. 

85 The silk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
Languidly ever ; and, amid 

Her full black ringlets downward roU'd, 
Glows forth each softly-shadow'd arm 
90 With bracelets of the diamond bright : 
Her constant beauty doth inform 

Stillness with love, and day with light. 

III. 

She sleeps : her breathings are not heard 
In palace chambers far apart. 
95 The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 
That lie upon her cliarmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest : 
She sleeps, nor dreams^ but ever dwells 
100 A perfect form in perfect rest. 



THE ARRIVAL. 
I. 

All precious things, discover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden worth. 
105 He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 47 



II. 

The bodies and the bones of those 

no That strove in other days to pass, 

Are wither'd in the thorny close, 

Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead : 

" They perish'd in their daring deeds." 
U5 This proverb flashes thro' his head, 
" The many fail : the one succeeds." 

III. 

He comes^ scarce knowing what he seeks : 
He breaks the hedge : he enters there : 

The color flies into his cheeks : 
120 He trusts to light on something fair ; 

For all his life the charm did talk 
About his path, and hover near 

With words of promise in his walk, 
And whisper'd voices at his ear. 

IV. 

125 More close and close his footsteps wind : 
The magic music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark, 
130 He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
" Love, if thy tresses be so dark. 
How dark those hidden eyes must be I " 

111. The thorny close. See lines 61-66. 
121, 126. The charm and the magic music are what well 
may have led the Prince of a fairy tale. 



48 THE DAY-DREAM. 



THE REVIVAL. 



A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 
There rose a noise of striking clocks, 
135 And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 
And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 
140 And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 

II. 

The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 

The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd, 
The fire shot up, the martin flew. 

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd, 
145 The maid and page renew'd their strife. 

The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 

III. 

And last with these the king awoke, 
150 And in his chair himself uprear'd, 

And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, 

'' By holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 
My beard has grown into my lap." 
155 The barons swore, with many words, 

'T was but an after-dinner's nap. 
152. Hood = the cross ; a common oath in ancient England. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 49 

IV. 
'' Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 
160 I mention'd half an hour ago ? " 
The chancellor, sedate and vain. 

In courteous words return'd reply : 
But dallied with his golden chain, 
And, smiling, put the question by. 

THE DEPARTURE. 



165 And on her lover's arm she leant. 

And round her waist she felt it fold. 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old : 
Across the hills, and far away 
170 Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess foUow'd him. 

II. 

" I 'd sleep another hundred years, 
O love, for such another kiss ; " 
175 " O wake for ever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this." 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, 
180 The twilight melted into morn. 

157. Pardy. Another oath — an English version of par Dieu 
(by God). 



50 THE DAY-DREAM. 



III. 

" O eyes long laid in happy sleep ! " 

'' O happy sleep, that lightly fled ! " 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep ! " 

'' O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! " 
185 And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark, 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

IV. 

"A hundred summers! can it be? 
190 And whither goest thou, tell me where?" 
" O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there." 
And o'er the hills, and far away 
Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
195 Beyond the night, across the day, 

Thro' all the world she foUow'd him. 



MOKAL. 

I. 

So, Lady Flora, take ray lay, 
And if you find no moral there, 

Go, look in any glass and say, 
200 What moral is in being fair. 

Oh, to what uses shall we put 

The wild weed-flower that simply blows ? 

And is there any moral shut 
Within the bosom of the rose ? 

186. Crescent-bark : the moon in poetry is frequently likened 
to a boat. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 51 



II. 

205 But any man that walks the mead, 

In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 
210 In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 
So 't were to cramp its use, if I 
Should hook it to some useful end. 



LENVOI. 



You shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense offends. 
215 Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends ; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 
220 And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars, 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
225 And all that else the years will show. 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours, 
The vast Republics that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 

213. A random string : here an off-hand tale without a 
moral. 



52 THE DAY-DREAM. 

230 In divers seasons, divers climes ? 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 
And in the morning of the times. 

II. 

So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 

Thro' sunny decades new and strange, 
235 Or gay quinquenniads would we reap 

The flower and quintessence of change. 

III. 

Ah, yet would I — and would I might ! 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 
240 That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not care ; 
You 'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there ; 
245 And, am I right or am I wrong. 

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro'. 
To search a meaning for the song. 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 
250 All-graceful head, so richly curl'd. 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 

IV. 

For since the time when Adam first 
Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
255 And every bird of Eden burst 

235. Quinquenniads = periods of five years. 

236. Quintessence must be accented on the first syllable. 



THE DAY-DREAM. 53 

In carol, every bud to flower, 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes ? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 
260 The fullness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved, 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see : 
265 But break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may give. 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life. 

And that for which I care to live. 



EPILOGUE. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 
270 And, if you find a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

" What wonder, if he thinks me fair ? " 
What wonder I was all unwise, 
To shape the song for your delight 
275 Like long-tail'd birds of Paradise, 

That float thro' Heaven, and cannot light ? 
Or old-world trains, upheld at court 

By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 
But take it — earnest wed with sport, 
280 And either sacred unto you. 

259. The double rosebud ; of course the lips of the line 
before. 

277. Old-world trains = the long skirts of old-world dames. 



54 DORA. 

DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son, 
And she his niece. He often looked at them, 
And often thought, " I '11 make them man and wife." 

5 Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 
And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, be- 
cause 
He had been always with her in the house, 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, '^ My son : 

10 1 married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 

15 She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, 

20 For many years." But William answer'd short ; 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 

Dora is one of the poems which, according to a plan Tennyson 
formed and abandoned for the title of one of his books, might 
well have been called an Idyll of the Hearth. It first appeared 
in the two-volume Edition of 1842. Such is the simplicity of 
the poem in plan and diction that " notes '' are more than usually 
a superfluity. 

To the story of " Dora Creswell '^ in Miss Mitford's Our Vil- 
lage, Tennyson acknowledged his debt for the origin of the 
poem. Indeed, the poet has followed the story very closely, 
even in many details. The concluding lines are perhaps the 
most important departure from the original. 



DORA, 65 

I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
" You will not, boy I you dai'e to answer thus ! ' 

25 But in my time a father's word was law. 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 

30 And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 

35 The month was out he left his father's house. 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 

40 His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my son. 
Or change a w^ord with her he calls his wife. 
My home is none of yours. My w^ill is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 

45 " It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " 
And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate. 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 

50 But Dora stored what little she could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 

55 And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 



56 DORA. 

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 
" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 

• And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 
This evil came on William at the first, 

60 But, Mary, for the sake of him that 's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
You know there has not been for these five years 
So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 

65 And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went her way 

70 Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 

75 And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart f ail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 

80 And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work, 

85 And came and said : " Where were you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you doing here ? '" 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answer'd softly, '' This is William's child ! " 
'' And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 

90 Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again ; 



DORA. 57 

" Do with me as you will, but take the child, 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's gone ! " 
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 

95 1 must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ; 
But go you hence, and never see me more." 
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 

100 And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands. 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she came, 

105 And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 

no Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, ''My uncle took the boy; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 

115 Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy. 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, 

120 And I will*have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back : 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one house. 
And work for William's child, until he grows 

125 Of age to help us." 



58 . DORA. 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 

1^ And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks. 
Like one that loved him : and the lad stretch' d out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy beheld 

135 His mother, he cried out to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said : 

'' O Father I — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself, 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 

140 For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife : but. Sir, he said 
145 That he was wrong to cross his father thus : 

' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never know 

The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turn'd 

His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 

But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
m Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 

His father's memory ; and take Dora back. 

And let all this be as it was before." 
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 

By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
155 And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 

148. Pass'd : this old use of passed for died is the same as in 
the phrase passing-hell — a bell that tolled immediately after 
death. 



THE TALKING OAK. 59 

" I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'cl 
my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 
160 The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
And all his love came back a hundredfold ; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
165 Within one house together ; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 

THE TALKING OAK. 

Once more the gate behind me falls, 

Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 

5 Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 
And ah ! with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

In the poems of 1842, The Talking Oak first appeared. The 
quotation from Mrs. Ritchie in the Biographical Sketch, concern- 
ing the peculiarly English charm of Tennyson's writing applies, 
perhaps, as forcibly to this poem as to anything in his work. 
Remarkable, too, is the mastery displayed in combining accu- 
rate botanical knowledge with poetic feeling, — two elements 
that are not easily blended. 

4. Chace = unenclosed park land. 



60 THE TALKING OAK. 

For when my passion first began, 
10 Ere that, which in me burned, 
The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself retui^n'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 
I spoke without restraint, 
15 And with a larger faith appeal'd 
Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart, 

And told him of my choice, 
Until he plagiarized a heart, 
20 And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven 
None else could understand ; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

25 But since I heard him make reply 
Is many a weary hour ; 
'T were well to question him, and try 
If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 
30 Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, 
Whose topmost branches can discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 
If ever maid or spouse, 
35 As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 



THE TALKING OAK. 61 

" O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year, 
40 Made ripe in Sumner-chace : 

" Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 

And, issuing shorn and sleek. 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 
The girls upon the cheek, 

45 " Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And number 'd bead, and shrift. 
Bluff Harry broke into the spence 
And turn'd the cowls adrift : 

" And I have seen some score of those 
50 Fresh faces, that would thrive 
When his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five ; 

" And all that from the town would stroll, 
Till that wild wind made work 
55 In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork : 

45-48. Peter's-pence was a tax to the Church of Rome, and 
the whole stanza refers to the casting off of Papal authority by 
Henry YIII., '* Bluff Harry." The spence, line 47, was the 
buttery or larder. 

51. His man-minded offset, Henry's daughter, Queen 
Elizabeth. 

54. That -wild "wind, the storm which raged on the night of 
Cromwell's death : it is said that his father was a brewer, and 
tradition has it that the stork, a Kepublican bird, disappeared 
from England when Cromwell died. 



62 THE TALKING OAK, 

" The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise. 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 
60 For puritanic stays : 

" And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties, that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 

Or while the patch was worn ; 

65 " And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 
About me leap'd and laugh'd 
The modest Cupid of the day, 
And shrill' d his tinsel shaft. 

" I swear (and else may insects prick 
70 Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 
Is three times worth them all ; 

" For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 
Have faded long ago ; 
75 But in these latter springs I saw 
Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboU'd on the greens 
A baby-germ, to when 

57. She-slips of loyal blood, daughters of houses faithful 
to the Stuarts : in the talk of an oak, they are naturally slips. 

63. In teacup-times of hood and hoop : this line and the 
five that follow skillfully suggest the days of Queen Anne, 
and the artificialities of the eighteenth century. 

70. Gall = the lump that grows on the bark or leaves of a 
tree round the eggs of an insect. 

76. Blow =: bloom. 



THE TALKING OAK. 63 

The maiden blossoms of her teens 
80 Could number five from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 

(And hear me with thine ears,) 
That, tho' I circle in the grain 

Five hundred rings of years — 

85 " Yet, since I first could cast a shade, 
Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made. 
So light upon the grass : 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 
90 To make the greensward fresh, 
I hold them exquisitely knit, 
But far too spare of flesh." 

Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern. 
And overlook the chace ; 
95 And from thj^ topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name. 

That oft hast heard my vows. 
Declare when last Olivia came 
100 To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holden at the town ; 
Her father left his good arm-chair. 

And rode his hunter doAvn. 
84. The rings which show an oak's age. 



64 THE TALKING OAK. 

105 " And with him Albert came on his. 
I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 
So seems she to the boy. 

" An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
no Within the low-wheel'd chaise, 
Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

" But, as for her, she stay'd at home, 
And on the roof she went, 
n5 And down the way you use to come 
She look'd with discontent. 

" She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf ; 
She left the new piano shut : 
120 She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

125 " A light wind chased her on the wing, 
And in the chase grew wild, 
As close as might be would he cling 
About the darling child : 

" But light as any wind that blows 
130 So fleetly did she stir, 

The flower she touch'd on dipt and rose. 
And turn'd to look at her. 



THE TALKING OAK. 65 

" And here she came, and round me play'd, 
And sang to me the whole 
135 Of those three stanzas that you made 
About my ' giant bole ; ' 

'' And in a fit of frolic mirth 

She strove to span my waist : 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 
140 I could not be embraced. 

" I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands, 
That round me, clasping each in each. 

She might have lock'd her hands. 

145 " Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 
As woodbine's fragile hold. 
Or when I feel about my feet 
The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern 
150 And shadow Sumner-chace I 

Long may thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place I 

But tell me, did she read the name 
I carved with many vows 
155 When last with throbbing heart I came 
To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

" O yes, she wander'd round and round 
These knotted knees of mine, 

148. Briony. A common plant in England, bearing red ber- 
ries. See how Longfellow uses the word in "The Sicilian's 
Tale, The Bell of Atri," in the Tales of a Wayside Inn. 



66 THE TALKING OAK. 

And found, and kiss'd the name she found, 
160 And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

'' A teardrop trembled from its source, 

And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse, 

But I believe she wept. 

165 ^' Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, 
She glanced across the plain ; 
But not a creature was in sight : 
She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind, 
170 That, trust me on my word, 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd ; 

" And even into my inmost ring 
A pleasure I discern'd, 
175 Like those blind motions of the Spring, 
That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 

The ringlet's waving balm — 
The cushions of whose touch may press 
180 The maiden's tender palm. 

" I, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

183. Vegetable loves. Gilbert makes amusiug use of this 
phrase iu his opera Patience. 



THE :rALKING OAK. 67 

185 " For ah ! my friend, the days were brief 
Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the leaf, 
Could slip its bark and walk. 

" But could I, as in times foregone, 

190 From spray, and branch, and stem. 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 

The life that spreads in them, 

" She had not found me so remiss ; 
But lightly issuing thro', 
195 1 would have paid her kiss for kiss, 
With usury thereto." 

O flourish high, with leafy towers. 

And overlook the lea. 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers 
200 But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern. 

Old oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 

205 " 'T is little more : the day was w^arm ; 
At last, tired out with play. 
She sank her head upon her arm 
And at my feet she lay. 

'' Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves, 
210 I breathed upon her eyes 

Thro' all the summer of my leaves 
A welcome mix'd with sighs. 



68 THE TALKING OAK. 

*' I took the swarming sound of life — 
The music from the town — 
215 The murmurs of the drum and fife, 
And lull'd them in my own. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 
220 Like a golden butterfly ; 

" A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine ; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck. 
From head to ankle fine. 

225 '' Then close and dark my arms I spread. 
And shadow'd all her rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head. 
An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
230 And pluck'd it out, and drew 
My little oakling from the cup, 
And flung him in the dew. 

" And yet it was a graceful gift — 
I felt a pang within 
235 As when I see the woodman lift 
His axe to slay my kin. 

" I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 
240 O kiss him once for me. 



THE TALKING OAK. 69 

" O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

245 Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look further thro' the chace, 
Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest, 
250 That but a moment lay 

Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 
Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice. 
The warmth it thence shall win 
255 To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset. 

Or lapse from hand to hand. 
Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
260 Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee. 

Nor wielded axe disjoint. 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

265 O rock upon thy towery top 

All throats that gurgle sweet ! 

264. Lizard-point, usually called " The Lizard," the southern 
extremity of England, near Land's End. 



70 THE TALKING OAK, 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet I 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
270 And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 
That under deeply strikes ! 
275 The northern morning o'er thee shoot, 
High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain. 

But, rolling as in sleep. 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, • 

280 That makes thee broad and deep ! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath. 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth. 

And gain her for my bride. 

285 And when my marriage morn may fall, 
She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
290 And praise thee more in both 
Than bard has honor'd beech or lime. 
Or that Thessalian growth, 

275. The northern morning = Aurora Borealis. 

292. That Thessalian growth; the oak at Dodona, from 



SEA DREAMS. 71 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 
295 And more than England honors that, 
Thy famons brother-oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 

Till all the paths were dim, 
And far below the Roundhead rode, 
300 And hummVl a surly hymn. 



SEA DREAMS. 

A CITY clerk, but gently born and bred ; 
His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child — 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old : 
They, thinking that her clear germander eye 
5 Droopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom. 
Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea : 
For which his gains were dock'd, however small : 
Small were his gains, and hard his work ; besides. 
Their slender household fortunes (for the man 
10 Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift, 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep : 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 

which the oracles of Zeus were said to be delivered through 
pigeons ; another method was to interpret the rustling of the 
leaves. 

296. Thy famous brother-oak ; the '' Royal Oak " at 
Boscobel in which Charles II. hid after his defeat at Worcester 
in 1651. 

Sea Dreams was produced in the same period with Enoch 
Arden. It was printed first in Macmillan\^ Magazine for Janu- 
ary, 1860, and took its place in the volume of 1864. 

4. Germander, a purple flower common in England. 



72 SEA DREAMS, 

Would darken, as he cursed his credulousness, 
And that one unctuous mouth which lured him, rogue, 

15 To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast, 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave. 
At close of day ; slept, woke, and went the next, 
The Sabbath, pious variers from the church, 

20 To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer. 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple men, 
Announced the coming doom, and fulminated 
Against the scarlet woman and her creed : 
For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd 

25 " Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if he held 
The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 
Were that great Angel ; " Thus with violence 
Shall Babylon be cast into the sea ; 
Then comes the close." The gentle-hearted wife 

so Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world ; 
He at his own : but when the wordy storm 
Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore. 
Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves. 
Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed 

35 (The sootflake of so many a summer still 
Clung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. 
So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff. 
Lingering about the thymy promontories. 
Till all the sails were darken'd in the west, 

19. Variers from the church. Dissenters from the es- 
tablished church of England ; their places of worship are called 
chapels, not churches. 

23. The scarlet woman. A favorite term with one class of 
** pulpiteers " for the Church of Rome. 

26. The Apocalyptic millstone. See Eev. xviii. 21. 

39, 40. To feel the truth of these lines it is only necessary to 



SEA DREAMS. 73 

40 And rosed in the east : then homeward and to bed : 
Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope 
Haunting a holy text, and still to that 
Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 
" Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," 

45 Said, " Love, forgive him : " but he did not speak ; 
And silenced by that silence lay the wife, 
Eemembering her dear Lord who died for all. 
And musing on the little lives of men. 
And how they mar this little by their feuds. 

50 But while the two were sleeping, a full tide 
Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks 
Touching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 

55 Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, 
Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and woke 
The mother, and the father suddenly cried, 
" A wreck, a wreck I " then turn'd, and groaning said, 

60 " Forgive ! How many will say, ' forgive,' and find 

A sort of absolution in the sound 

To hate a little longer I No ; the sin 

That neither God nor man can well forgive, 

Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
65 Is it so true that second thoughts are best ? 

Not first, and third, which are a riper first? 

Too ripe, too late ! they come too late for use. 

Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast 

Something divine to warn them of their foes : 

remember how different is the appearance of objects towards 
and away from the setting sun. 



74 SEA DREAMS. 

70 And such a sense, when first I fronted him, 
Said, ' Trust him not ; ' but after, when I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him less ; 
Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; 

75 Made more and more allowance for his talk ; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him with all, 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years 

Of dust and deskwork : there is no such mine, 
None ; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold, 
80 Not making. Euin'd I ruin'd ! the sea roars 
Ruin : a fearful night ! " 

''Not fearful; fair," 
Said the good wife, " if every star in heaven 
Can make it fair : you do but hear the tide.^ 
Had you ill dreams ? " 

" O yes," he said, " I dream'd 
85 Of such a tide swelling toward the land. 
And I from out the boundless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless deep 
90 Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved upon it 
In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. ' What a world,' I thought, 
' To live in ! ' but in moving on I found 
Only the landward exit of the cave, 
93 Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond ; 
And near the light a giant woman sat. 
All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A pickaxe in her hand : then out I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 



SEA DREAMS, 75 

100 As high as heaven, and every bird that sings : 
And here the night-light flickering in my eyes 
Awoke me." 

" That was then your dream," she said, 
''Not sad, but sweet." 

" So sweet, I lay," said he, 
" And mused upon it, drifting up the stream 

105 In fancy, till I slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that still 
The motion of the great deep bore me on, 
And that the woman walk'd upon the brink : 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it : 

no 'It came,' she said, ' by working in the mines : ' 
O then to ask her of my shares, I thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook her head. 
And then the motion of the current ceased. 
And there was rolling thimder ; and we reach'd 

115 A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep hill 
Trod out a path : I f ollow'd ; and at top 
She pointed seaward : there a fleet of glass. 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, 

120 Sailing along before a gloomy cloud 

That not one moment ceased to thunder, past 
In sunshine : right across its track there lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold. 
Or what seem'd gold : and I was glad at first 

125 To think that in our of ten-ransack'd world 
Still so much gold was left ; and then I f ear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it, 
And fearing waved my arm to warn them off ; 
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 



76 SEA DREAMS. 

130 (I thought I could have died to save it) near'd, 
Touch'd, eliuk'd, and clashed, and vanish'd, and I 

woke. 
I heard the clash so clearly. Now I see 
My dream was Life ; the woman honest Work ; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass 

135 Wreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.'' 

" Nay," said the kindly wife to comfort him, 
" You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke 
The glass with little Margaret's medicine in it ; 
And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream : 
140 A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

" No trifle," groan'd the husband ; " yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. 
Like her he shook his head. ' Show me the books ! ' 

145 He dodged me with a long and loose account. 
' The books, the books I ' but he, he could not wait. 
Bound on a matter he of life and death : 
When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant me well ; 

150 And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. ' My dearest friend. 
Have faith, have faith ! We live by faith,' said he ; 
' And all things work together for the good 
148. " The judgment was set, and the books were opened." 

Dan. vii. 10. As in Enoch Arden the character of Annie is 

kept consistent by her superstitions, so here the familiar use 

of the Scriptures by the city clerk and his wife mark them as 

" pious variers from the church " (line 19). 

154. " All things work together for good to them that love 

God." Kom. viii. 28. 



SEA DREAMS. 77 

155 Of those ' — it makes me sick to quote him — last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went, 
I stood like one that had received a blow ; 
I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, 
A loose one in the hard grip of his hand, 

160 A curse in his God-bless-you : then my eyes 
Pursued him down the street, and far away. 
Among the honest shoulders of the crowd. 
Read rascal in the motions of his back. 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee." 

1&5 " Was he so bound, poor soul ? " said the good 
wife ; 
" So are we all : but do not call him, love. 
Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs his friend 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about 

170 A silent court of justice in his breast. 
Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd : 
And that drags down his life: then comes what 

comes 
Hereafter : and he meant, he said he meant, 

175 Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well." 

" ' With all his conscience and one eye askew ' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learn 
A man is likewise counsel for himself. 
Too often, in that silent court of yours — 
180 ' With all his conscience and one eye askew, 
So false, he partly took himself for true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry, 

165. Bound. See line 147. 

180-193. An excellent imitation of the satirical style of Pope 
and his school. 



78 'SEA DREAMS. 

Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye ; 

Who, never naming God except for gain, 
185 So never took that useful name in vain ; 

Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool, 

And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; 

Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged. 

And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged ; 
190 And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 

Arising, did his holy oily best, 

Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, 

To spread the Word by which himself had thriven.' 

How like you this old satire ? " 

" Nay," she said, 
195 " I loathe it : he had never kindly heart. 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind. 
Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it. 
But will you hear my dream, for I had one 
That altogether went to music ? Still 
200 It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

— " But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem VI, of luminous vapor, lay. 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, a ridge 
205 Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 

Grew with the growing note, and when the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fullness, on those cliffs 
Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that 

202-241. Various interpretations of the wife's dream have 
been attempted ; but since the meaning of the husband's dream 



SEA DREAMS. 79 

Living within the belt) whereby she saw 

210 That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more, 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age. 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see, 
One after one : and then the great ridge drew, 
Lessening to the lessening music, back, 

215 And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to music : ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder, fell ; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters round, 

220 Some crying ' Set them up ! they shall not fall ! ' 
And others ' Let them lie, for they have falFn.' 
And still they strove and wrangled : and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 

225 With that sweet note : and ever as their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave 
Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away 

230 The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone. 
To the waste deeps together. 

" Then I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images, 
Both cro^Ti'd with stars and high among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her child 
23-5 High up on one of those dark minster-fronts — 

is so clear as to need no explanation, and since the wife tries to 
show, lines 239-241, that dreams after all signify nothing, is it 
not more reasonable to take her story merely for what it appears 
to be on the surface, — the account of visions no more wonderful 
tlian those which come to any dreamer ? 



80 SEA DREAMS, 

Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke, 
And my dream awed me : — well — but what are 
dreams ! 
240 Yours came but from the breaking of a glass, 
And mine but from the crying of a child." 

"Child? No!" said he, "but this tide's roar, 

and his. 
Our Boanerges with his threats of doom, 
And loud-lung d Antibabylonianisms 
245 (Altho' I grant but little music there) 

Went both to make your dream: but if there 

were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about, 
Why, that would make our passions far too like 
250 The discords dear to the musician. No — 

One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of 

heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil ! " 

"'True' indeed! 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
255 Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore ; 
While you were running down the sands, and 

made 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap, 

243. Boanerges. See line 20. ^^Ancl he suniamed them 
Boanerges, which is, the sons of thunder." St. Mark iii. 17. 

257. The sea-furbelow ; an unfamiliar name for a large 
sea- weed — one of the Laminaria — which has a dimpled flounce- 



SEA DREAMS. 81 

Good man, to please the child. She brought strange 

news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke to-night ? 
260 1 had set my heart on your forgiving him 

Before you knew. We 7nust forgive the dead." 

'' Dead ! who is dead ? " 

" The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him, 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease." 

265 " Dead ? he ? of heart-disease ? what heart had he 
To die of? Dead!" 

" Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong you charge him with, 
His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice 
270 (You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep! ^^dll she not sleep 
Without her ' little birdie ' ? well then, sleep, 
And I will sing you ' birdie.' " 

Saying this. 
The woman half turn'd round from him she 
loved, 
275 Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the night 
Her other, found (for it was close beside) 
And half embraced the basket cradle-head 
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough 

like edge. For Tenuysou's own explanation of the line see note 
in Rolfe's Enoch Arden and Other Poems, p. 164. 



82 SEA DREAMS. 

That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd 
280 The cradle, while she sang this baby song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
285 Birdie, rest a little longer. 

Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 
290 In her bed at peep of day ? 

Baby says, like little birdie, 

Let me rise and fly away. 

Baby, sleep a little longer, 

Till the little limbs are stronger. 
295 If she sleeps a little longer. 

Baby too shall fly away. 

" She sleeps : let tis too, let all evil, sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive him, dear, 
300 And I shall sleej) the sounder ! " 

Then the man, 
" His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : 
I do forgive him I " 

" Thanks, my love," she said, 
"Your own will be the sweeter," and they slept. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 83 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 
WELLINGTON. 

I. 

Bury the Great Duke • 

With an empire's lamentation. 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning o£ a mighty na- 
tion, 
5 Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

n. 

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
10 Let the sound of those he wrought for. 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, died September 12, 
1852. The first draft of the Ode was hastily written, and pub- 
lished as a sixteen-page pamphlet. In this form it received 
severe criticism, but when it appeared again a year later, it was 
much emended. Besides minor alterations lines were added to 
stanzas i. and ii. and the passage about Lisbon in the sixth 
stanza was included. 

Different as Wellington was from Lincoln in many outward 
ways, it is interesting to observe how many lines which the 
Laureate wrote of the one might have been written of the 
other. It is somewhat less strange that the high patriotism 
celebrated in stanzas vii. and viii. appeals to citizens of every 
land. 

9. In streaming London's central roar ; in St. Paul's Ca- 
thedral. 



84 ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON, 



III. 
Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe, 
15 Let the long, long procession go, 
•And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow. 
And let the mournful martial music blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low. 

IV. 

Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
20 Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 

No more in soldier fashion will he greet 

With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 

O friends, our chief state-oracle is mu^e : 

Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 
25 The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 

Whole in himself, a common good. 

Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 

Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 

Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
30 Great in council and great in war. 

Foremost captain of his time. 

Rich in saving common-sense. 

And, as the greatest only are. 

In his simplicity sublime. 
35 O good gray head which all men knew, 

O voice from which their omens all men drew, 

O iron nerve to true occasion true, 

O fall'n at length that tower of strength 

18. The last great Englishman is low. Compare this 
line and the stanza, iv., following with Lowell's Commemoration 
Ode, stanza vii., ending with a description of Lincoln as " the 
first American.'' 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON, 85 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew I 
40 Such was he whom we deplore. 
The lonof self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more. 

V. 

All is over and done : 

Render thanks to the Giver, 
45 England, for thy son. 

Let the bell be toU'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 
50 That shines over citj^ and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd : 

And a reverent people behold 
55 The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be tolFd : 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoU'd ; 
60 And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roU'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss ; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

42. The great World- victor = Napoleon. 

46. Let the bell be toll'd : it may be noticed how the repe- 
tition of this line and the sound in the passage that follows, of 
the rhymes with tolVd, produce the effect of solemnity that is 
sought. 

49. The cross of gold, on the dome of St. PauPs. 



86 ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON, 

65 His captain's-ear has heard them boom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom : 

When he with those deep voices wrought, 

Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 

With those deep voices our dead captain taught 
70 The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name, 

Which he has worn so pure of blame, 

In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
75 O civic muse, to such a name. 

To such a name for ages long. 

To such a name. 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 

And ever-echoing avenues of song. 

VI. 

80 Who is he that cometh, like an honor 'd guest, 

With banner and with music, with soldier and with 
priest. 

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ? 

Mighty Seaman, this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 
85 Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, 

The greatest sailor since our world began. 

Now, to the roll of muf&ed drums. 

To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 

For this is he 
90 Was great by land as thou by sea ; 

His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 

O give him welcome, this is he . 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 

83. Mighty Seaman : Nelson, who was already buried in St. 
Paul's, asks the question, " Who is he ? " 



ODE OX THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 87 

And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
95 For tliis is England's greatest son, 

He that gain'd a hundred fights, 

Xor ever lost an English gun ; 

This is he that far away 

Ao-ainst the m^Tiads of Assave 
loci Clash'd with his fiery few and won : 

And underneath another sim, 

Warring on a later day, 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 
m Of his labor'd rampart-lines. 

Where he gi^eatly stood at bay, 

Whence he issued forth anew. 

And ever great and gTeater grew. 

Beating from the wasted vines 
uo Back to France her banded swarms, 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o'er the liills her eagles flew 

Beyond the Pyrenean pines. 

Followed up in valley and glen 
Uo With blare of bugle, clamor of men. 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 

And England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Ao:ain their raveninor ea^le rose 
120 In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings. 

And barkinof for the thrones of kinoes : 

Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown 

99. Assaye. Welliugtou's first gi^eat battle, in India, Septem- 
ber 23. 1S03. With 9,600 men he defeated 40,000. 

103. Affrighted Lisbon ; in the battle of Vim eiro, August 21, 
1808, the French lost Lisbon to Wellington. Under General 
Junot they had held it nearly a year. 



88 ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON, 

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down ; 

A day of onsets of despair ! 
125 Dash'd on every rocky square 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 

Thro' the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
130 And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 

So great a soldier taught us there. 

What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 

Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
135 And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine, 
140 If love of country move thee there at all. 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice, 
145 The proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
150 Eternal honor to his name. 

123. That loud sabbath ; the day of the battle of Water- 
loo. 

138. O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile ; m the battle 
of the Baltic, Nelson, with Admiral Parker, defeated the Danish 
fleet off Copenhagen, April 2, 1801 ; the Battle of the Nile he 
won from the French off Rosetta, August 1, 1798. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 89 



VII. 

A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget, 
Confus'd by brainless mobs and lawless Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 

lob His Briton in blow^n seas and storming showers. 
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; 

160 O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England w^hole. 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne. 
That sober freedom out of which there springs 

165 Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ; 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust. 
And drill the raw world for the march of mind. 
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just. 

170 But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts ; 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ; 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 

175 For ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 

180 Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ; 

168. Drill the raw "world ; a strong military figure likening 
the world to recruits as yet untrained for advance. 
170. Wink asleep. 



90 ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 

Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow- 
Thro' either babbling world of high and low ; 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 

185 Who never spoke against a foe ; 

Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the right : 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named ; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke ; 

190 Whatever record leap to light 
He never shall be shamed. 

VIII. 

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
FoUow'd by the brave of other lands, 

195 He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars. 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great, 

200 But as he saves or serves the state. 

Not once or twice in our rough island-story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory : 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 

205 Love of self, before his journey closes. 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 

210 The path of duty was the way to glory : 

184. Rugged maxims hewn from life ; another line that 
might be applied accurately to Lincoln. 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON. 91 

He, that ever following her commands, 
On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won 
His path upward, and prevail'd, 

215 Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 
Such was he : his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind endure, 

220 Let his great example stand 
Colossal, seen of every land. 
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure : 
Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
The path of duty be the way to glory : 

225 And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
And w^hen the long-illumined cities flame 
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, 

230 With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 

IX. 

Peace, his triiunph will be sung 

By some yet unmoulded tongue 

Far on in siunmers that we shall not see : 
235 Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung : 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one, upon whose hand and heart and brain 
240 Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 

229. Iron leader ; Wellington's familiar name was the Iron 
Duke. 



92 ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON, 

Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this, our great solemnity. 
245 Whom we see not we revere ; 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humility 
250 As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere, and while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity. 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 
255 Until we doubt not that for one so true 

There must be other nobler work to do 

Than when he fought at Waterloo, 

And Victor he must ever be. 

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
260 And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will ; 

Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 

Round us, each with different powers. 

And other forms of life than ours, 
265 What know we greater than the soul ? 

On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 

Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears : 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : 

The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ; 
270 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 

He is gone who seem'd so great. — 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 

Of the force he made his own 

Being here, and we believe him 



ULYSSES. 93 

275 Sometlimg far advanced in State, 

And that he wears a truer cro;wn 

Than any wreath that man can weave him. 

Speak no more of his renown, 

Lay your earthly fancies down, 
280 And in the vast cathedral leave him. 

God accept him, Christ receive him. 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king, 
By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 
Match'd with an aged wife, I meet and dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

5 That hoard, and sleep^ and feed, and know not me. 
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink 
Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those 
That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

10 Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and kno^^^l ; cities of men 
And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Ulysses appeared first in the volume of 1842. An interesting 
circumstance in connection with it is that when Sir Robert 
Peel as Prime Minister was urged to put Tennyson's name on 
the pension list in 1845, he confessed complete ignorance of the 
poet's work. The reading of this one poem, however, decided 
him to grant the annuity. 

10. Hyades := " the rainers," the group of seven stars at the 
head of Taurus. 

11. Vext. Students of Latin will feel the cla*ssicism of this 
word. 



94 ULYSSES. 

15 Myself not least, but honor'd of them all ; 
And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met ; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

20 Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is ta pause, to make an end. 
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 
As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

25 Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains ; but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things : and vile it w^ere 
For some three suns to store and hoard myself, 

30 And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
To follow knowledge like a sinking star. 
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 

35 Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 

40 Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In of&ces of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 
There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her sail : 

45 There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners. 
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought 

witli me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 



I 



ULYSSES. 95 

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 

50 Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 

55 The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the 
deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 

60 To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 

65 Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho' 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven : that which we are, we 

are ; 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 

TO To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

60. The baths, etc. Where the western stars sink into the 
sea. 



96 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

I. 

Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward. 
All lu the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
5 '' Forward the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

II. 

" Forward the Light Brigade ! " 
10 Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

The Charge of the Light Brigade was first printed in a London 
daily newspaper in December, 1854, with a note by the author 
saying it was prompted by his " reading the first report of the 
Times^ correspondent, where only six hundred and seven sabres 
are mentioned as having taken part in the charge." Bala- 
klava, where the charge took place, w^as the British headquar- 
ters, in the Crimean War, from September, 1854 to June, 1856; 
the charge itself was made October 25, 1854. From the mili- 
tary point of view it was an absurd and hopeless movement. 
The order which occasioned it was a blunder. Captain Nolan, 
on whom it fell to deliver the command, was the first man to 
fall. 

In the volume of 1855, the poem appeared considerably 
amended, but the changes were so criticised that the poet restored 
the lines more nearly to their original form. Moreover, he had 
a thousand copies of them printed in leaflets for distribution 
among the soldiers before Sebastopol ; for he had heard how 
they liked the poem, and wanted them, as he said in a note 
printed with it, " to know that those who sit at home love and 
honor them." 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 97 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply 
Theirs not to reason why, 
15 Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

III. 

Cannon to right of them, 
• Cannon to left of them, 
20 Cannon in front of them 
Volley'd and thunder'd : 
Storm'd at with shot and shell. 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
25 Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

IV. 

Flash'd all their sabres bare, 

Flash'd as they turn'd in air 

Sabring the gunners there, 
30 Charging an army, while 
All the world wonder'd : 

Plunged in the battery-smoke 

Right thro' the line they broke ; 

Cossack and Russian 
35 Reel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shattered and sunder'd. 

Then they rode back, but not 

Not the six hundred. ' 



Cannon to right of them, 
40 Cannon to left of them, 



98 LADY CLARE, 

Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
45 They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them. 
Left of six hundred. 

VI. 

50 When can their glory fade ? 

O the wild charge they made ! 
All the world wonder'd. 

Honor the charge they made ! 

Honor the Light Brigade, 
55 Noble six hundred ! 

LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow. 
And clouds are highest up in air. 

Lord Eonald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

5 1 trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they : 
They two will wed the morrow morn : 
God's blessing on the day ! 

Lady Clare appeared in the volume of 1842, and there the poet 
acknowledged in a note his debt to Miss Ferrier's novel The In- 
heritance for the story. As the substance of the verses is like^ 
that of an old English ballad, so is the manner, to a remarkable 
degree. 



LADY CLARE. 99 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
10 Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; ' 
He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse. 

Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " 
15 '' It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
'^ To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O God be thank'd ! " said Alice the nurse, 

" That all comes round so just and fair : 
Lord Eonald is heir of all your lands, 
20 And you are 7iot the Lady Clare." 

" Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? " 
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " 

" As God 's above," said Alice the nurse, 
" I speak the truth : you are my child. 

25 " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 
I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 
And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
30 O mother," she said, " if this be true, 
To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 
35 And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 



100 LADY CLARE. 

" If I 'm a beggar bom," she said, 
'' I wall speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, 
40 And fling the diamond necklace by.'' 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
'• But keep the secret all ye can/* 

She said, '• Xot so : but I will know 
If there be any faith in man," 

45 " Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the niu'se, 
*• The man will cleave unto his right." 
" And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
'' Tho' I should die to-nio'ht." 



^&* 



" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear I 
50 Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 
'* So strano'e it seems to me. 



-"o^ 



" Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear. 
My mother dear, if this be so, 
55 And lay yoiu' hand upon my head. 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare : 
She went by dale, and she went by down, 
60 With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Eonald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 

And follow'd her all the way. 



LADY CLARE. 101 

65 Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth I 
Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth? *' 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 
70 I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born,'' she said, 
" And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 
75 Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
'' Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail ; 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 
80 And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merrj^ scorn : 

He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : 

'' If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

So " If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 
We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 

73. Lord Ronald' ; the necessity of accenting Ronald here, 
on the second syllable, is one of the marks of the ballad struc- 
ture. 

77. O and proudly, another ballad form. 



102 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing. 
Toll ye the chiirch-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
5 For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year, you must not die ; 

You came to us so readily, 

You lived ^ith us so steadily. 

Old year, you shall not die. 

10 He lieth still : he doth not move : 
He will not see the dawn of day. 
He hath no other life above. 
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, 
And the Xew-year will take 'em away. 
15 Old year, you must not go ; 

So long as you have been with us. 
Such joy as you have seen with us. 
Old year, you shall not go. 

He f roth'd his bumpers to the brim ; 
20 A jollier year we shall not see. 
But tho* his eyes are waxing dim. 
And tho' his foes speak ill of him. 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, you shall not die ; 
25 We did so laugh and cry with you, 

I 've half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 

The Death of the Old Year first appeared in the volume of 
1832. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 103 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
30 To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he '11 be dead before. 
Every one for his own. 
The night is starry and cold, my friend, 
35 And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
40 The cricket chirps : the light burns low : 
'T is nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 
Old year, we '11 dearly rue for you : 
What is it we can do for you? 
45 Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack ! our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
50 That standeth there alone. 

And waiteth at the door. 

There 's a new foot on the floor, my friend. 

And a new face at the door, my friend, 

A new face at the door. 



104 CROSSING THE BAR. 



CROSSING THE BAR. 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

5 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 
Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 
10 And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell. 
When I embark ; 

For though from out our bourne of time and place 
The flood may bear me far, 
15 1 hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have crost the bar. 

Crossing the Bar was contained in the volume of 1889, De- 
meter and Other Poems. For a singer of eighty years to strike 
so truly lyrical a note, to show himself as eminently a poet as in. 
his prime, was not the least of Tennyson's achievements. The 
verses were sung at the poet's funeral in Westminster Abbey. 
The last poem he wrote, with music by Lady Tennyson, was also 
a part of the service. 

3. Moaning of the bar. A familiar line in Charles Kiogs- 
ley's The Three Fishers comes to mind, — " And the harbor bar 
be moaning." 



LRBS'21 



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